


Godbane

by miraestrellxs



Series: Actual Murderer AU [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Canon Retelling, Gen, The Subtle Knife, actual murderer au, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-06 02:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14632029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraestrellxs/pseuds/miraestrellxs
Summary: Lyra asked:What is he? A friend or an enemy?The alethiometer answered:He is a murderer.Arthur Elwyn strayed from the path his mother would've wanted for him and became an assassin. He finds a window to another world where he meets a little girl accompanied by an animal she calls a dæmon, her soul outside her body. Their encounter bounds them. Lyra Silvertongue brings with her magic he didn't know existed, real magic. Such as his destiny to wield a weapon capable of opening paths to other worlds and kill the maximum Authority. A retelling of The Subtle Knife.





	1. The Window

"Arthur Elwyn." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "We come to ask you questions about your brother's expedition to the North Pole." 

Two men stood outside the door, no weapons in sight but that didn't mean they had none. Both broad shouldered and with little hair on their heads, the differences were on the shape of their faces, the colour of their eyes and the perfectly shaved beard of one. 

Arthur's mind immediately went to the gun he had closest, on the little counter between the living room area and the kitchen. 

"My brother?" Arthur asked. "You must have mistaken me for someone else, I don't have a brother." 

"John Elwyn doesn't sound familiar to you?" asked No Beard. 

"No, I'm sorry." 

"Mr. Elwyn." No Beard moved his jacket aside and there was the gun on his belt. "It would do you good not lying." 

Arthur tightened his grip on the door knob. "Come in?" He needed to stand closer to the counter, to the gun. If they were armed he might as well be too. 

Both men walked inside and Arthur locked the door. 

They regarded each other in silence, no hostility and no tense muscles. Arthur walked past the table flooded with books and papers and shut the one he had been reading. A cat watched the men from the counter, close to the gun, but none of them payed attention to her. No Beard had his eyes trained on Arthur and Beard was looking at the overflowed shelf next to the front door. 

"Now," said Arthur, leaning against the counter next to the calico molly and in front of the gun to keep it from sight. Mimi, the molly, looked at him with big green eyes and then at the two strange men. Her paws tucked underneath her. "John Elwyn you said?" 

No Beard spoke, "The expeditionary that travelled to the North Pole to investigate the magne—" 

"The magnetic field, yes." Arthur smiled at them like if this were a friendly conversation. None of the two men smiled in return. "I heard of that." 

"Well we want to hear all you know," said No Beard. 

Arthur hummed, contemplative. "I'm sorry, men, but John was the expert. I wouldn't be able to explain even if I tried. I'm a college drop-out." 

"Quit being funny." There was the gun again. 

"I'm being honest." Arthur's jovial expression changed for a frown. He stretched a hand to pet Mimi. 

Beard wasn't trying to hide his snooping anymore. He was looking through the books and papers stacked on the shelf, pushing aside what wasn't useful and knocking it to the ground. 

"Excuse me," said Arthur loudly. Beard turned to look at him. "Lost something?" 

"We know John Elwyn wrote to you regularly and that he spoke about the expedition on his letters," said No Beard in behalf of his partner. 

The muscles on Arthur's jaw clenched. "Those letters.. yeah. I think I lost them. I move around a lot, you see, and John sent those letters before I dropped out of Oxford. That was years ago." 

Beard was back to searching. Once every paper had been looked at, every book opened, every slot of the shelf cleared and all the items thrown to the floor, he shook his head at No Beard. Arthur looked between the two still petting Mimi, her tail slashed like she knew these men could become harmful. 

"Where are the letters?" No Beard asked, even less friendly now. 

"I told you I don't have them." 

"The truth, Mr. Elwyn." The gun was on No Beard's hand now, safety still on but he was pointing at Arthur. 

Mimi _mrr-owed_. 

"What reason would I have to lie to you?" Arthur asked, voice calm. 

Safety off. 

"We shouldn't kill him," said Beard, speaking at last. Whatever accent he had was heavy. "He would want him alive. He knows something." 

"And dead men don't talk," Arthur added. He lifted in surrender the hand that wasn't petting Mimi. 

"Then I suggest you start talking now," No Beard pressed. "I can still shoot you somewhere that wouldn't kill you." 

"My brother was a lunatic. He joined an archaeological expedition to the North Pole to look for a mythical legend, something in the likes of the Abominable Snowman or the Loch Ness monster. He believed the magnetic field had something to do with it." 

Silence. 

"And?" 

"And that's it, that's all I know." 

The two men exchanged glances. No Beard spoke in what Arthur supposed was Beard's native language and they held a small exchange. Arthur understood nothing. He took that small distraction to properly take his gun and hide it behind his back, changing sides so the free hand could continue to pet Mimi. 

They were looking at him again. 

"Is that all you know, Mr. Elwyn?" asked No Beard. 

"No more, no less." 

No Bear sneered, he said something to Beard in the unknown language and they laughed not-quite-happy laughs. No Beard's hold on the gun was firm once again. 

"Forgive me if I don't believe you, Mr. Elwyn. We're gonna have to resort to violent measures." 

"Torture? That's below you, my good man." 

"I won't do the torturing, I have my honour," said No Beard. "You are coming with us and the boss will decide how to get the full information out of you." 

Arthur pointed his gun at No Beard, clicking the safety off. 

It was a dumb move because, obviously, Beard had a gun too that he pointed directly at Arthur. Two guns on one. He'd been in worst situations. Five guns against one. Four M16 and a miserable knife. He had the scars to prove it. 

"Now, Mr. Elwyn," said No Beard with fake kindness that reminded Arthur so much of his teachers in primary school. "College drop-out or not, you're a clever man. Put the gun down." 

"I will when you do, or when you leave my flat and close the door behind you." Arthur was still petting Mimi. 

"You can't shoot both of us, Mr. Elwyn. It's either me or Johannes, and the other will just shoot in retaliation." 

Arthur looked at Beard. "Johannes? Interesting name. Where is it from?" 

"Danmark," said Beard, Johannes, in his language. "Denmark," he translated. 

"And you?" Arthur asked No Beard. "We should've done formal presentations when I opened the door. You already knew my name, of course, but how impolite is it that I don't know yours." 

No Beard looked at Johannes and then laughed, like if he couldn't believe Arthur. 

"Well?" pressed Arthur but not unkindly. 

"Frank." 

"See? Much better. Well Frank and Johannes, it's been my pleasure. The door is right behind you, I'm sure you'll catch a bus home if you leave now." 

Frank didn't like the condescending tone, he was at least twenty years older than Arthur. Middle-aged men never liked when kids in their twenties ordered them around. He moved closer, Johannes remained where he was still holding and pointing the gun. 

Mimi hissed at Frank. 

"Ah, Frank, I wouldn't come any closer." 

"I'm done humouring you, Mr. Elwyn." Frank pressed the barrel of his gun to Arthur's chest. "If I have to shoot your knees and drag you out then so be it. I didn't want to do this that hard way but you're not being cooperative." 

Arthur put the barrel of his gun against Frank's temple. He heard the slight clicking of Johannes' gun, an unspoken _don't do it_. Arthur looked towards Johannes over Frank's shoulder, the gun was pointed to his head. 

"Alright, gentlemen," said Arthur. "First to shoot wins, so who is gonna be?" 

"You can't win this one, Mr. Elwyn. If you shoot me Johannes shoots you, if you shoot Johannes I shoot you. I think the upperhand is clear in this situation." 

Arthur hummed as if deep in thought. He moved the gun from Frank's temple, pointed at Johannes, back at Frank's temple, Johannes, Frank. "No, I don't have my glasses. You're a little blurry from here, Johannes." 

Mimi was tense, still like a statue. 

No one moved. 

Frank was getting tired of the childish behaviour. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, moving to grab Arthur's arm. "Listen bo-oy—" 

The kitchen knife seemed to materialise out of nowhere on Arthur's hand and it stabbed Frank on the side just as quickly. Mimi jumped from the counter with Arthur's movements, she had been hiding the knife. From the floor now, Mimi watched with her unblinking green eyes how Frank used his free hand to touch the bleeding wound. The knife was no longer inside, Arthur held the bleeding instrument on the hand not holding the gun. 

Frank's knees buckled and he shot, but the weakening of his whole body made it so he missed. The bullet broke a window panel. Johannes shot next but Arthur was expecting it and this bullet hit the wall, both explosions rebounding in the room. 

Arthur shot and brain matter came out of the back of Johannes' head as he crumbled to the ground. He shot Frank on the forehead too for good measure, even if he knife wound would've kill him on its own anyways. 

Two pools of blood formed. 

Arthur dropped the bloody knife on the little counter and started to gather papers. He shoved them inside a worn leather backpack seemingly at random, gun in his pants back pocket with the safety back on. 

Mimi hid when she heard the first gunshot and now watched Arthur from underneath that horrible flower-printed sofa the landlady of the complex offered with the flat. 

Arthur pulled the string to close the backpack and then closed the flap, he hung it on his shoulders and picked his glasses (thick framed and a clear indication he probably shouldn't take them off if he wanted to see clearly), putting them on. 

Looking around the flat he made sure nothing left would give him away. 

He should take the bloody kitchen knife. 

And so he did. 

One last survey to the room, he caught Mimi's glimmering eyes from underneath the sofa. She was a clever girl, the neighbour's kids loved her and would probably feed her and adopt her. Mimi would be fine. 

"It's been my pleasure," Arthur said to his cat. 

She just stared. 

He left the flat leaving two bodies and a pretty calico behind. 

It was late and the landlady slept like the dead, it was unlikely she heard the gunshots but the neighbours weren't quite as heavy sleepers. There was a single mum with two kids, college students and and old man in the complex. One of them sure heard the gunshots. Arthur couldn't delay his escape. 

Outside waited a sketchy looking car. Frank and Johannes' ride. 

A man, younger than Johannes and Frank, could've been Arthur's classmate in Oxford, leaned against the car and smoked. They shared one very brief look and that was enough for the young man to identify Arthur. 

"Hey, wait!" 

Arthur was running. He didn't dare turn but heard the distinctive sound of car doors opening and then hurried steps came after him. Persecution. 

Checking how many were chasing him would cost him precious seconds but there were more than three, of that Arthur was sure. He blended in the late night crowds to try and loose them, but, well, it was past two in the morning so there weren't exactly crowds. More like people walking together. Loosing the pursuers was harder than anticipated. 

Arthur liked clean jobs. He was never one to leave bodies or stained weapons behind (which is why he took the knife that was sure getting blood all over his papers and books), but the flat complex was too full of witnesses. He just hoped none of the tenants framed him as the murderer. Arthur made sure to be nice to all of his neighbours and make his flat look like that of a very passionate erudite, make himself the last suspect of a crime. 

Gaining pursuers was another downside of dirty jobs. 

He couldn't shoot out here in the open for the aforementioned reasons. The only option was making himself scarce. 

At least Arthur had one advantage: he was only one and his pursuers were, what? Five? He didn't have to tell his next move to anyone, he just did it. The men following him were, apparently, decided to stick together. Maybe because of a matter of being stronger in numbers. They already tried coming at him from different sides but it didn't work because a trio of girls returning from a pub (or going to) offered an escape. 

They looked suspiscious, Arthur didn't. He was just a man in his late twenties in a rush, nothing odd about that. 

Arthur jumped over a fence of a suburban house and padded down the backyard, going around the pool. The lights inside the house were off, the occupants most likely asleep. 

He looked over his shoulder to make sure the men hadn't thought of doing the same thing as him. It seemed he had outsmarted them on this one. Five men jumping into a suburban backyard was weirder than just one man doing it. 

Walking towards the frontyard, Arthur stopped at the flank of the house to examine the terrain. A cobbled path led from the front door to the fence gate. Hornbeam trees rose beyond the fence, lining the street that cut through the roads of houses. Tall, round and probably plastic hornbeam trees. They were too perfect and green to be real. The lampposts made everything tint orange. 

No sign of life. 

Arthur moved as swiftly as he could down the frontyard and jumped over the fence. 

Look left and right. Nothing. 

He lost them. 

Arthur smirked, feeling smug. He didn't know where he would go now but at least he was alive and un-tortured. He covered the steps separating him from the hornbeam trees and sat down against one of them, one side facing the street and the other the house he had just jumped the fence of. The hornbeam was real. 

In front of him he could see a large traffic circle, with no traffic. It was probably three in the morning now. 

He was still in Oxford but couldn't tell where exactly. There had to be a motel in the vicinity, somewhere with a bed and hosts that would not ask questions once they saw the money. 

The traffic circle or deeper into the suburbia. 

The traffic circle was a safer bet for a motel, going deeper into the suburbia would probably lead him towards park benches and Arthur was in no position to sleep in the open. His pursuers might just take him in his sleep. Or kill him. 

No human presence. He was completely alone. 

Had the men given up? Were they calling their superior? Had one of them stayed in the flat complex and found Frank and Johannes? 

Arthur checked for his gun against the belt of his pants, where he had tucked it for convenience: still there. He took it and put it on the grass, hidden by his legs. He just needed to catch his breath, look less agitated, like he hadn't been chased through half of Oxford, then he'd go in the look of that cheap motel. 

Something was off. 

Arthur blinked several times, took his glasses off — blurring things a little — and cleaned them. What was that reflection on his eyes? A strange light trick right in front of him. It wasn't the spectacles, they were clean now, and he saw it with or without them. 

Leaning forward, Arthur outstretched one arm as if he could catch the strange distortion in his vision. 

He felt something, a change in the air. It was a brutal change because while the Oxford night was cold like it should be, this air was humid. Sticky. 

Arthur lifted his knees, took the gun with one hand and examined closer. He moved his free hand again. The change appeared when it moved it closer to the side with the houses, so he did. Closer to the strange smoke-and-mirror bothering his eyesight. 

His hand vanished. 

Arthur leaped from the place he was sitting on to kneel facing the houses, his hand in front of him and the street behind. He could see his hand now, inside a square-esque shaped frame cut in the air. From it came the warm air. Inside Arthur saw grass like the one his knees rested on and orange lamppost light like that shining on him. 

Yet it was different, that wasn't Oxford. 

It was another world, there, cropped in the fabric of this reality. 

He looked down the street again. Sparse cars in the traffic circle, no one on the sidewalks and no signs of life in the suburban houses. 

Arthur stuck his head through the frame and looked around. 

Where Oxford's air was sharp, cold, fine, this one was round and heavy, damp. To left and right he saw a queue of palm trees arranged just like the hornbeam trees. He saw cafés and small shops on the side of a boulevard, it was nighttime like in Oxford but Arthur could tell each individual establishment was painted in vibrant colours. He could smell sand and the ocean. 

A beach-side town. 

Arthur pulled his head back to Oxford. 

In the distance, he heard muffled voices. No. Not in the distance, close, they were just quiet. The backyard of the house. They were still following his trail (whichever he might have left). 

Without stopping to think, because survival and his freedom were priority, Arthur scrambled through the window to the beach town — with a bit of difficulty — and took a few steps away from the window for good measure. 

The air, other than salt water and sand, smelled of flowers. They were on the sills of some shops and cafés. 

Arthur waited but heard no signs of the men walking down the hornbeam lined street. No sound from his world filtered to this one. Just him and the crickets, because there _were_ crickets. 

As far as hideouts went, Arthur had never considered a whole different world. 

There had to be a motel somewhere. It was improbable they accepted pounds but he would have to try. He would sleep here and wait it out until tomorrow, maybe even a couple more days, until the men coming after him gave up. 

What was so important about John's expedition? 

Arthur realised almost with a physical start that this window, this opening in the fabric of space and time, sounded like the anomaly John had been so fixated in finding. 

An entrance to the spiritual world, to another world. 

The landscape, picturesque and imperfect, didn't strike him as spiritual. 

Arthur memorised the layout of the opening that would lead him back to Oxford so he didn't forget. The palm trees of either side of it curved like wanting to form an arch, that should be easy enough to remember. Tucking his gun behind him against his belt, Arthur walked away from Oxford and further into this strange world. 

The streets were narrow, cobbled, and the lampposts looked Victorian. Most of the establishments seemed to be open, some even had neon signs that said _OPEN_ or handwritten signs with _WE'RE OPEN!_ , but there was no one inside. There was no one. The world was silent like that street of Oxford. Only the rumour of the ocean and the crickets could be heard along with Arthur's steps and the sound of his spare bullets clashing against each other and the bloody knife inside his backpack. 

Every building differed in colour from the other. Blue, red, yellow, pink, purple, green, white. Arthur passed his hand among daisies on a window sill to test if they were real, he rubbed petals between his fingers. Real. 

He stopped to sling his backpack off and take the jacket off, the warm air finally getting to him. 

Arthur looked at his backpack, resting now on a little table placed outside a café, a colourful parasol above it. He opened the flap and loosened the string keeping it shut. He dumped all the contents on the table. There was no breeze, the papers wouldn't fly off. 

The bloody knife and his casing with spare bullets fell heavily along with the books he had brought. Everything had blood on it. As long as the writing was still legible that wouldn't be a problem. 

Arthur grabbed the bloody knife, took a couple steps back, and threw it over the roof of the café. He heard it land, or just hit, the clay tiles of the roof. That was taken care of. There was no evidence on that knife. Arthur and Frank didn't exist in this world. 

He looked through the papers and arranged them properly this time, putting them inside the books. He stuffed it all into the backpack along with the casing of the bullets. The only thing he left out were a bunch of yellowing papers tied together with a black string of leather. 

John's letters. 

Arthur didn't know why he held onto them. Maybe it was nostalgia and longing for his dead brother. Maybe because when he read them to his mother her memory seemed to improve and she could actually remember Arthur's name and her own. 

Maybe because despite being angry at his brother for leaving to chase fantasies, they was all he had left of him. 

An entrance to the spirit world. 

John had gone looking in the wrong place, the window to another world was in Oxford. 

Arthur wished he could tell him. 

He shoved the letters inside the backpack, pulled the string, shut the flap and slung it on his shoulders again. 

Monaco, that's what this place reminded him of; but with colourful buildings. Arthur had been to Monaco for a job. He shot a man on the forehead from a balcony in the Casino Montecarlo. Caused general panic that allowed him to get out without being caught or spotted. Of course, that lasted exactly twelve hours and then he had men dressed in black suits and wearing black sunglasses threatening him and— yeah, that ruined his vacation. 

The sound of the ocean was getting louder. 

The smell of salt and sand thickened until the cobbled street he was following opened towards the beach. The ocean was pitch black with buoys and the moon reflecting on it. High above the ground in the distance lights were peppered, houses on a cliff. 

Arthur breathed in the saltpetre and stood still a moment to appreciate the sound of the waves against the shore. 

Like he expected, there were hotels with ocean view. Grand buildings just like those of Monaco but the colour of peaches, lilacs, mint and baby's breath. There were fountains with statues of putti on the centre. The gardens were grand and lights hung from oleander and boj trees, giving everything an aura of enchantment and elegance. 

Arthur approached one of the hotels to look through the glass doors. The lights were on but the inside was empty, like everything else. 

He walked away and down the cobbled street that stretched parallel to the beach. There was barely any division between the sand and the cobblestones, just waist-high circular pillars. 

"Find a place to sleep.. and eat too." Arthur grabbed his abdomen. He wasn't the type to have the three meals a day, usually he snacked at any time of the day or night and the last thing he had were chicken flavoured crisps. Running for his life made him hungry. 

So a café or restaurant would come in handy before he chose a place to sleep. 

There were sailboats on the harbour, he could see them clearer and clearer the closer he got. Sailboats, yachts, fisherman boats, there was a wide variety like with everything in this world. 

Arthur stopped abruptly when he saw movement in one of the sailboats. A beautiful piece of work of stark white. If he listened carefully enough he could hear a voice— two voices. Arthur took quiet steps closer to the sailboat, trying to place the voices. Were they a thread? What approach should he take? 

If he had to guess, he would say they were the voices of two kids. 

One of them suddenly hissed, " _Lyra!_ " 

Arthur halted, scanning the sailboat until he spotted the eyes fixed on him. 

The figure, not quite illuminated by the cafés and restaurants and whatnot lining the harbour, was small. Obviously a child. Arthur couldn't tell any details from this far, just that this child was staring at him, unmoving. 

So Arthur moved. He walked closer to the sailboat until he was right in front of it. 

The child stepped back, never taking her eyes off him. Her. It was a girl. Arthur could see that now that he was closer. She held something protectively on her arms, as if trying to shield whatever it was from him. 

"Hey," said Arthur. "What are you doing out here alone?" 

The girl didn't answer. 

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you." Could she even understand him? The signs on the cafés and shops had been in English, so he supposed this girl would be able to understand what he was saying. 

She still didn't move or speak. On her arms something moved but she just pressed whatever it was closer to her chest, keeping it from escaping. 

"I'm sure your parents told you not to trust strangers." Arthur tried a slight humorous tone on his voice and smiled, the girl didn't return it. 

Instead she whispered something, "He's not dead, Pan." 

It wasn't meant for Arthur. She had ducked her head a little to speak with whatever was on her arms. 

If there was an answer to her words, Arthur didn't hear it. 

"What is your name?" Arthur tried this time. 

"Lyra Silvertongue." 

"Hello, Lyra. My name is Arthur Elwyn." 

Nothing. 

"Do your parents know you're out this late?" Arthur asked. 

"My parents aren't here, they're in my world." 

Arthur crouched, putting his arms on his knees. "This isn't your world either?" 

"No." Pause. Then, "Is your dæmon hiding?" 

"My demon? What do you mean by that?" 

"You're not dead or half-dead. Where's your dæmon?" 

"Dæmon," Arthur repeated in a slight murmur. "I don't know how to answer that, Lyra." 

Still wary, she came closer and then pulled herself out of the sailboat. To do this she needed both hands which meant she had uncover and let go of whatever she had been hiding.

A little bird, a swallow maybe judging by the shape of the tail, flew to avoid hitting the ground when Lyra let it go. But the swallow was almost instantly replaced by a wildcat that stepped away from Arthur and pressed its flank to Lyra's legs when she stood on the harbour before Arthur. 

They stared at each other in silence. 

Arthur was still crouching with his arms on his knees, so Lyra was just a little taller than him. 

The light hit her better now. Arthur could now tell that her hair was either dark blonde or light brunette and that she was scrawny, and dirty. 

"You said this wasn't your world," Lyra finally said. 

"That's right." 

"Did you cross a bridge in the sky and walk through fog too?" 

"No, there was a window. It brought me here." Arthur shifted his weight so he didn't fall. "How long have you been here?" 

"Forgot. Days." 

"And you're alone?" 

"No, I have my dæmon." 

Arthur looked at the wildcat that hadn't taken its eyes off him. Its gaze was intelligent, basically human. Tail fluffed and back slightly arched in warning. 

"This is your dæmon?" 

"Yes, his name is Pantalaimon." 

Arthur nodded at the wildcat. "Hello, Pantalaimon." 

The wildcat didn't respond but his posture relaxed a little. 

Arthur looked back at Lyra. She seemed more calm now — shoulders no longer tense and her arms hung limp on her sides — yet her hands were still closed in fists. Like if she was ready to hit him if necessary. 

"Why did you leave your world, Lyra?" 

"I'm looking for Dust." 

"A special kind of dust?" 

"Yes." 

"So Dust with a capital D?" 

"Yes, I suppose." 

Arthur straightened. Pantalaimon, the wildcat-dæmon, arched his back but when Arthur made no abrupt movement he relaxed once more. Now Arthur towered over Lyra and Pantalaimon. 

"You shouldn't be wondering alone late at night." 

"I have Pan, and there's no one here. I haven't seen anyone." 

So the place _was_ empty. 

"What about your parents? Aren't they worried about you?" 

"I was following my father but he disappeared in the fog, and I don't want to go back to my mother." 

Arthur sighed. He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "How old are you, Lyra?" 

"Twelve." 

"And what were you doing in that sailboat?" 

"I sleep there, I lived in a boat once." 

Arthur looked around, up and down the street and at the buildings facing the ocean. He couldn't walk away now that he'd found this twelve-year-old girl. He didn't know if the colourful city would stay empty for long or if there were other dangers. That she'd been alone for days worried him. She didn't look well. She was filthy and sickly thin. Arthur wasn't a kids expert, but he dated a single mum once. And wielding a gun didn't take common decency from him. 

"Would you mind if I stayed with you, Lyra?" 

Her brows creased in confusion, but she said nothing. 

"I think it'd be more pleasant if we kept each other company. I don't have a dæmon like you do." 

Those words didn't seem to rub Lyra and Pantalaimon the right way but they said nothing towards that either. 

After a long second of silence, Lyra finally said, "Alright." 

Arthur offered her a smile. "Alright. Mind if we found some place with actual beds to sleep? And I'm a little hungry, any recommendations?" 

"I've only had bread and stuff, there is no one to make food." 

"Lucky for you I am a decent cook. How about that café right there?" 

Lyra glanced at the little establishment right across from them, with its stripped awning and tables on the cobbled street and flowers on the balcony of the second floor. She looked back at Arthur and gave a stiff nod and then jogged towards the café with Pantalimon following faithfully. 

Arthur went after them.


	2. Goldenlocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to Max (@mackerelgray.tumblr.com) for editing the chapter. Go give them all the love they deserve.

It was far too late for Lyra to still be up, but Arthur wasn't going to let her sleep until she had proper food.

In the steady electric light of the café, Arthur could now see the terrible state Lyra was in. She wore a ratty dress and snow boots, and her curls — which might have been bouncy and toasted golden when tidied up — were a filthy, tangled mess. Her face was caked with dirt and she appeared thinner than he previously thought.

The way she rushed towards the kitchen and then waited for him expectantly showed she was starving.

Arthur dropped his backpack and jacket on one of the tables inside the café. He could see the top of Lyra's head in the kitchen and Pantalaimon, who was now a vibrantly-coloured butterfly.

"Maybe wait outside," Arthur told Lyra as he had a look around the kitchen. Assessing the situation and what he had to work with. This was a café, it had to be well stashed. "I don't want you to get burned."

Lyra stared at him a moment with her shockingly perceptive blue eyes, and then nodded. She walked out of the kitchen with butterfly-Pantalaimon in tow.

There was a big opening, like a window without a panel, connecting the kitchen with the eating area. This way Arthur could keep an eye on Lyra and cook at the same time.

He set to work looking inside the fridge and cupboards. Some things had to be thrown away but others seemed fresh enough. The canned food was the only stuff he really trusted, but it probably wouldn’t be enough for a meal by itself. So he opened the canned beans, broke some eggs, found cheese that wasn't moldy and ham that didn't smell putrid. Good enough to make omelettes.

The frypan sizzled with the batter.

Lyra was bouncing on her tiptoes, trying to get a look from the other side of the counter; she must've heard the frypan.

"Hungry, Lyra?" Arthur asked with a hint of playfulness.

Lyra simply nodded.

He was distracted not a minute later when he heard the distinctive sound of bullets inside his casing. He looked up. Lyra had opened his backpack and was looking inside. Arthur couldn't see Pantalaimon from here but he supposed the dæmon was looking in too.

"There's blood in here, Pan," Lyra whispered. She’d obviously hoped that her voice would be masked by the sizzle of the cooking omelettes, but the café was so silent otherwise that Arthur heard her anyways.

"You shouldn't snoop, Lyra," came Pantalaimon's voice, whispering too. "He's being nice to us, don't be rude."

"I don't trust him," said Lyra.

"Well, I do," said Pantalaimon.

Lyra stopped rummaging in the backpack and looked at her dæmon, who seemed to be on the table beside her. "Why?"

"I just do," said Pantalaimon.

Lyra and her dæmon seemed to hold a conversation with their eyes only, then Lyra pulled the string of the backpack and closed the flap.

Arthur finished the omelettes.

He set the plates (baked beans and ham-and-cheese omelettes) down on a table-for-two, beside the one his backpack and jacket were on, along with two glass bottles of bright red soda. Arthur had found beer but didn't feel like trying the alcoholic beverages from another world this late.

“Found anything interesting?” he asked casually, sliding into the chair opposite Lyra’s.

Lyra sat down looking sheepish. Pantalaimon, now a tawny weasel, scampered onto her shoulders and gave Lyra a pointed look: _I told you so._ She glared at him.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"If you wanted to know what was inside you could've just asked."

Lyra nodded, not looking up to meet his gaze. She took the fork and after that there wasn't much talking. Lyra ate the omelette like a starving child — which, to be fair, she was — and attacked the beans with similar vigor. She stared at the soda with distrust but tried once she saw Arthur take a drink from it. Pantalaimon chirped a laugh when Lyra made a face, the bubbles sure to have gone up her nose.

Arthur smiled.

Lyra was done eating first. She stared at Arthur for a moment before asking, "Why is there blood in your bag?"

Arthur looked up at her. She didn't seem bothered by the blood, or whatever reason or excuse Arthur might have. She was just curious.

"You don't look hurt," she added before he could answer.

"I wasn't the one that got hurt, it was someone else." After hesitating a second he added, “I hurt them.”

She nodded, satisfied with that answer. "Why did you come to this world?"

"I was running from some people," Arthur said.

"The ones you hurt?"

"Yes."

Lyra bit on one of her fingernails but said nothing. Pantalaimon was sniffing at the remains of the omelette on her plate, snapping up the biggest pieces. For some reason Arthur found it fascinating that Pantalaimon ate food just like him and Lyra.

"Do you plan to stay here?" Lyra asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know, maybe just for a few days. At least until it is safe for me to go back."

"Where are you from?" Lyra shifted on her seat, sitting on her calves so she was taller. Her soda was more than halfway gone.

"England, I’d been living in Oxford for the past month. I don't know if you—"

"Oxford!" Lyra squealed. "I'm from Oxford!"

Arthur lowered his fork, a piece of omelette still on it. "An Oxford in another world?"

"I might be able to find answers on Dust in your Oxford!" Pantalaimon was a butterfly again, fluttering around Lyra's head as happy as her. "You have to take me to your Oxford!"

"I can't go back just yet, Lyra. They might still be looking for me."

Pantalaimon landed on Lyra's shoulder. Her eyes kept their glimmer but she slouched a little in disappointment. "What was your name?"

"Arthur."

"You will show me the window to your Oxford when you don't have to hide anymore?"

"I promise, Lyra."

That made her happy and she gave Arthur a big smile. He returned it. Lyra asked no more questions or said anything else after that. Arthur finished his food in silence.

The plates were picked up and washed in the same silence, the frypan left to soak. In a better mood now that he had eaten and the heavy warmth of the air had diminished, Arthur stuffed his jacket inside his backpack and then slung it on his shoulders. Lyra was already waiting outside.

Well, not waiting. She was picking her things from the sailboat and pulled herself out to meet him on the cobbled street.

They walked with the ocean to one side and buildings to another. Pantalaimon scurried around them changing shapes to both run and fly, Arthur didn't know why understanding the dæmon felt easy, like knowing that a smile meant happiness and a frown meant the opposite. He understood Pantalaimon's behaviour meant he was happy, and he didn't need to see Lyra's light step to make sure. It was in his nature. Surreal, but weirdly comforting at the same time.

There were innumerable hotels with open doors inviting them in, but Arthur and Lyra walked right past them. When the harbour gave way to the beach once more they saw a queue of cabins painted in the order of the colours of the rainbow. Seven rentable cabins right on the beach.

Arthur walked towards the red one and looked inside. Empty, like everything else.

"Strikes your fancy?" he asked Lyra.

She had a look too, stepped back and went to check the orange one. She repeated the process until she got to the purple cabin and Arthur watched her walk back two and enter the blue one. He followed her lead and walked inside too.

It wasn't different to the red cabin. Same layout. Front room with a kitchenette and a small living room with a telly. Two doors, both ajar, one led to the bedroom and another the bathroom. The cupboards were empty and a quick check of the fridge proved it was empty too. A few seashell mobiles hung from the ceiling, twisting gently as Arthur walked by.

"Why the blue one?" Arthur asked Lyra, following her to the bedroom.

She put all of her things — a smelly fur coat and a leather shoulder bag — on one of the two bedside tables. Each had a lamp that bathed the place in orange light.

"It feels nicer than the red one," said Lyra. Pantalaimon was a wildcat again and he laid on the bed with his legs tucked under him, just like Mimi.

"I'll take the sofa. You go to sleep now, it's late."

Lyra showed no signs that she heard him. He was turning about to leave when she suddenly asked, "Why are people looking for you? Is it because you hurt them?"

Arthur pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "They want something I have."

Lyra pulled her lips to the inside of her mouth, turning serious, if Pantalaimon's unblinking gaze was any given. When no more questions were asked, Arthur nodded and retired to the living room, partially closing the door behind him.

The sofa was a little too small for him but he managed. The cushions were comfortable enough and the sound of the ocean was soothing. He heard the springs of the bed as Lyra shifted but didn't stand to check on her. He would ask in the morning or she would bother him if something was bothering her. She seemed like the type of kid that would do that. Blunt.

Arthur kicked his shoes off and slept with a gun at arm's reach.

* * *

Lyra pulled the alethiometer from her bag, caressing it as though it were a beloved pet. Pantalaimon turned into a dormouse so he could see the symbols too without blocking the sight of them from Lyra.

She looked at her dæmon and then at the door, where Arthur had disappeared to. She looked back at Pantalaimon and wondered for the umpteenth time what this man's dæmon would look like, what it would be able to tell her about him. She trusted the alethiometer to give her an answer but would it really be better than seeing his dæmon?

"She has to be something powerful," said Pantalaimon in his small dormouse voice. "I can feel it."

"A lioness," said Lyra. "Or a wolf."

"Doesn't have to be big, just.. powerful. Clever."

Lyra thought a lioness and wolf were very powerful and clever.

She looked at the door again and then back at the alethiometer. The finest of the needles circled the surface without a purpose, waiting for her to formulate the question.

So she did.

It was easy, the three symbols came mindlessly and then Lyra watched the needle spin in answer.

This was the question she had wanted to ask when she met him, but hadn't dared take the alethiometer out for him to see it.

_What is he? A friend or an enemy?_

The alethiometer answered: _He is a murderer._

Lyra sighed, relieved.

"His dæmon might be a bear, Pan."

She was ready to trust him now.

* * *

"Who did you kill?"

Arthur blinked blearly, trying to adjust his eyes to the bright sunlight that came through the windows with no curtains. Lyra was standing next to the sofa with a butterfly-Pantalaimon on her shoulder. In the sunlight she looked even worse and Arthur briefly wondered if forcing her to shower would be a challenge or not.

"What?" he croaked, his drowsy mind not processing the question at all.

"Who did you kill?" Lyra repeated, ever patient.

Arthur pushed himself to a sitting position, involuntarily reaching for his gun that laid forgotten on the floor. He realised too late what he had done. Lyra had seen the gun.

"Was it the person that got blood in your bag?"

Arthur rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He leaned down again to take his glasses from the floor and he put them on, Lyra came into focus and so did butterfly-Pantalaimon. She was calm, the question out of curiosity and not concern.

"I— Yes." Something told Arthur that Pantalaimon would be able to tell if he lied.

"Why did you kill them?"

"They wanted something I have." 

“So you didn’t just hurt them.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“What is it that you have that they want?”

Arthur looked at her for a second and then said, "Something."

Lyra pursed her lips but didn't push it. Instead she asked, “Do you know what your dæmon looks like?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“I think she would be a bear.”

“Really?” Arthur rubbed his face again, still a little sleepy. “And why is that?”

“You remind me of my friend Iorek Byrnison, he’s the king of the Armoured Bears in Svalbard.”

Svalbard. A bear king. Had he heard that correctly? It sounded like the invention of a little girl, but she said it with such conviction. Such...truth. A bear kingdom in Svalbard. John had been in Svalbard before continuing further north. There were polar bears and the northern lights, John said.

What kind of world was Lyra from?

“I remind you of a king?” Arthur asked, forearms on his knees.

“Did you kill someone important and that’s why you’re running away? Were you exiled?”

She asked as though that would answer his question. 

Arthur simply shrugged. “I’ve killed people,” he said carefully, fully aware that this topic wasn’t to be treated lightly. Especially not around a young audience like Lyra and Pantalaimon. “Some of them have been important figures, but that is not why I’m hiding this time. I’m always hiding.”

“Are you royalty?”

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “No, far from it. My father was a marine and my mother was a teacher. Lived in East Bergholt until I started college.”

Pantalaimon was a beautiful stark white ermine now, with black eyes, nose and tail tip. He wrapped around the back of Lyra’s neck like a living fur scarf. His gaze was as intense as Lyra’s.

“And your dæmon doesn’t have a name either?”

“No.” Arthur looked directly at Pantalaimon, who held his gaze without flinching. “I’m still not entirely sure what a dæmon is, or if I have one.”

“You have to.” Lyra’s tone was urgent, borderline scared. Arthur remembered how she had whispered to Pantalaimon about him not being dead, how she had said the same thing to him when they spoke. “You have to or you would be—”

“Dead?”

“Or worse.”

Pantalaimon slid from her shoulder to Lyra’s waiting arms. They moved in perfect sync, Lyra didn’t even have to look at Pantalaimon to know what his next movement would be, she was just ready. It was mesmerizing to look at and Arthur suddenly felt lonely. The hand not holding the gun clenched and unclenched, as if it too looked for the comfort of soft fur.

“What are dæmons exactly, Lyra?” he asked.

“A dæmon is you.”

She had said that for the lack of a better explanation from a twelve-year-old. Pantalaimon was now a polecat, his white fur changing like chameleon mimicking colours. He sniffed the air, leaning from Lyra’s grasp and towards Arthur. He closed his fingers again and moved his hand an inch, searching for the warmth of a body that wasn’t there.

“Your dæmon is inside you, not like mine. I can hold mine. I can hold Pan.” Lyra hugged Pantalaimon to her chest. He grew and now he was a wildcat. A massive tabby. “You can’t hold yours but you’re together like me and Pan are together, but not exactly. You are actually together.”

Pantalaimon kept sniffing, his whiskers twitching. Was it possible he could smell Arthur’s dæmon? Arthur put his free hand to his chest but only felt one heartbeat: his. Did Lyra’s heart beat in time with Pantalaimon’s?

“I see,” Arthur said, even though he didn’t. “And you think mine would be a bear? But wouldn’t it just change shape like Pantalaimon?”

“She, and no, adult dæmons can’t change shape. Only kids can.”

“Well, if bears are the animals of kings I don’t think _she_ would be a bear.”

Lyra shrugged. “You would agree if you met Iorek Byrnison.”

Arthur stood up, forcing Lyra to lift her head to look at him. He smiled. “Well, want to go get breakfast?”

A smile and a nod. Pantalaimon became a canary, fluttering around Lyra.

“But first, how about you clean up? Take a shower.”

“There’s no one to wash my hair. Maids did it in Jordan and my mother when I lived with her.”

“Right.” Arthur walked towards the little table, putting the gun on top of it. He was besides Lyra now. She didn’t smell any better than she looked. “Tell you what, I’ll help you wash your hair and then you can finish up on your own. Sounds good?”

Lyra’s mouth shifted like if she were biting it from the inside. “But you’re a man.”

“You’ll wrap a towel around yourself while I wash your hair, then I’ll leave you alone to properly soap everything else.”

She didn’t need long to consider it. “Okay.”

There were towels below the sink. The water was cold but with the rising heat it was just perfect. Pantalaimon perched from his tail as a possum on the tube holding the curtain. Arthur explained Lyra how to wash her hair so she could do it herself next time, he’d developed a few tricks helping his mother when she was too sick to do it herself. It took two rounds of shampoo and conditioner to get the filth from Lyra’s hair, but once his fingers could brush through the locks without getting stuck in tangles he considered it done.

“Put on the clothes you were wearing once you’re done, we’ll go find you fresh clothes after we have breakfast.”

With that he left the bathroom and let her finish.

He stepped out of the blue cabin to take a look at the beach.

The sun beat down on the white sand, making it glow, and the ocean water sparkled. The shore was closer now than it had been last night. Seagulls cried far away, and he saw a pelican or two diving for fish. Everything was serene — overwhelmingly hot, but serene. The waves murmured and the wind didn’t have a clear direction. Beyond the ocean, Arthur could see the cliffs with their magnificent houses, the ones that had shined with lights in the dark. The view looked like a painting.

He went back inside, boards creaking underneath his feet. He looked at his backpack next to the little sofa, wondering where he should go now. If he should really go back to his world or if he should just stay here, where he could start over as a new person. 

Stop being Arthur Elwyn. Be someone not charged with nine types of murder, a stranger in a strange land. No mother, no father, no brother.

Nothing.

He hadn’t seen his mother in over four years. Would it really make a difference if he just vanished? Vanished like John did. Except, if he vanished, unlike John, there would be no one to miss him. The last time he visited his mother she didn’t recognise him.

The door of the little bathroom opened and Lyra stepped out. 

She smiled, proud for accomplishing the simple task of showering almost by herself. Her ratty dress looked out of place now with her clean face and wet hair. Pantalaimon was a parakeet sitting on her shoulder.

“Done!” Lyra announced happily.

Arthur had to force a smile. Thankfully it felt natural once the curve was fully there. “Feel better, I assume?”

Lyra nodded. She went to the bedroom and brought back from it that bag she’d been carrying. The one she took from the sailboat. She strapped it across her chest. “Won’t you shower?”

“I want to get clean clothes first, come on.” Arthur took his backpack from the floor and slung it on his shoulder, took the gun from the table and put it on his belt against his back. Empty world or not, he was paranoid enough to carry a gun and his backpack everywhere he went.

Pantalaimon flew from Lyra’s shoulder and became a collie dog, wagging his tail and taking the lead as they left the blue cabin.

The heat was even worse outside with the sun hitting them directly. Arthur rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and watched Lyra skip down the cobbled streets. Cleaning up and eating had done marvels for her humour — she hadn’t been this happy last night. She also seemed more comfortable with him now. Arthur wondered if it had anything to do with with Iorek Byrnison.

Pantalaimon barked like an actual dog, or maybe he was laughing. He played with Lyra, chasing her and jumping. Arthur smiled at the sight, a flash of longing in his chest. If he’d had a dæmon as a kid he would have never been bored. He wouldn’t have felt alone.

In the daylight, the colourful buildings had details. Most of them looked old, some needed repainting and some _had_ been repainted but just partially. So there were orange buildings looking more peach than sunset. The city looked _lived in_ , and somehow that added to its charm.

Why was it empty?

They found a little boutique by the harbour.

Arthur took a handful of shirts and pants, just in case he went back to England and had to stay on the run. What an idiot he had been for not taking clothes with him when he left his flat.

“Lyra, I’m gonna go next door to shower! Don’t wander off!”

“Okay!” answered her voice from further into the boutique. She was choosing what to wear. Arthur saw a swallow Pantalaimon fly over the racks and shelves to check on him, and then flying back down once he got a look.

Arthur went to the next door motel. 

He opened a few doors until he found a room and then a bathroom. The water was cold here too but he was used to it, his flat didn’t have warm water most days. He rinsed the blood that stuck to his hands and face from stabbing Frank and shooting both him and Johannes.

Once he dried and dressed, he headed back to the boutique.

Like him, Lyra had taken a handful of clothes to wear later. That or she liked the clothes and wanted to take them. She was wearing a new dress now, with flowers on it, the kind of dress you would buy at a beach-side store like this one. She was barefoot, the snow boots nowhere in sight.

Arthur helped her find shoes her size, leather ones with the likes of those girls wore in private schools. They put their newly acquired clothes inside bags they found behind the counter and once that was done they left the boutique

Sleeves rolled up again, Arthur walked with Lyra towards the café they ate in last night.

Arthur halted, holding a hand up.

There was someone inside.

Two someones.

Pantalaimon changed shapes so quickly Arthur felt vertigo. The last shape he chose was a small sparrow, he perched on Lyra’s shoulder and tried to hide with her hair. Her curls were puffy now, dried with the sun.

Two kids were inside the café, a boy and a girl. Their hair bright orange. Arthur’s girlfriend in high school had hair this bright, but hers had been in a pixie cut. The girl seemed to be Lyra’s age. The boy was younger. Eight or nine years old.

“Hello?” Arthur called.

The girl and the boy looked up. They were sitting at a table with baskets besides them, eating.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.” He put his hand on Lyra’s back and gently nudged her into the café, going in after her. “I’m Arthur, this is Lyra. You're the first people we've seen since we got here, what are your names?”

The girl had her eyes narrowed, she was heavily freckled, probably because of the sun. Her brother was the same. “I’m Angelica, this is my brother Paolo.”

She had an accent, though different to any accent Arthur had ever heard. An accent from another world. Was this how English sounded here?

“Are you from Ci’gazze?” Angelica asked.

Lyra shook her head.

“Sant’Elia?”

“We’re from Oxford,” said Lyra.

“Where’s that?” asked Angelica.

“Far,” said Lyra.

Angelica nodded, pleased with the answer. She then nailed her eyes on Arthur and now she narrowed them for real. She was suspicious, or doubly suspicious since she had already looked it when he and Lyra walked in.

“You’re a grown up,” she said.

“I am...“ Arthur said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Why haven’t the Spectres got you?”

“Spectres?” asked Arthur and Lyra. She said it louder than him so it sounded like just she had said it.

“Yeah, they’re all over the city, that’s why the grown ups can’t come back. They have to wait for the Spectres to leave.” Her gaze was accusatory, borderline aggressive, but she was still just a twelve-year-old.

Arthur just looked back at her with a neutral expression. Unafraid, unaffected.

“They should’ve got you by now,” Angelica declared.

Arthur gazed around the little café as if looking for the Spectres, as though they would be visible in the sunlight. He hadn’t seen anything odd last night (other than Lyra and her dæmon), and he didn’t start seeing them now.

“Well, this place looks empty to me,” Arthur said. He was aware that his voice had changed to condescending, a tone he hadn’t been using around Lyra up to now. 

This girl looked like the type to guilt trip her parents into doing whatever she wanted. He was going to let her know he wouldn’t let a twelve-year-old think she had any sort of power just because she knew more than he did.

Angelica’s lips pursed.

“What did you say this place was called?” Lyra asked.

“Ci’gazze,” said Angelica. “Cittàgazze, all right.”

“You got a bird!” said her brother, Paolo, suddenly. He was pointing at the little sparrow-Pantalaimon perched on Lyra’s shoulder.

Lyra took a step back, closer to Arthur, one hand going up defensively to shield Pantalaimon from the siblings. Just like she had done when she met Arthur. Protecting her dæmon was priority number one.

“Are there any other kids around here?” Arthur asked.

Angelica looked at him. “We’re the first to get here, more should arrive later.”

“Us and Tullio,” said Paolo.

Angelica looked at her brother now, her narrowed gaze turning into a full on glare. Her little brother shrunk on his seat and looked down to his plate. They were eating sandwiches, Arthur realised.

“Who’s Tullio?” Arthur asked, making sure to keep using the condescending tone.

Angelica glared at Paolo a little more before answering. “He’s our big brother, he’s grown so the Spectres could get him so he’s hiding.” Done with the conversation, or not wanting to answer any more questions, Angelica finished her sandwich in three huge bites and stood up. She picked up her basket and pulled Paolo’s arm harshly. “We gonna get ice cream now.”

“Okay,” said Lyra. “Bye.”

Paolo waved, but Angelica didn’t acknowledge them any further. She left the café without a look back, fingers around Paolo’s arm like pincers.

“Charming girl,” said Arthur. “So, breakfast?”

Lyra nodded, though her mind was somewhere else. She chose a table at random, following Arthur’s instructions from last night: stay out of the kitchen while he cooked. He made scrambled eggs and toast, poured two glasses of orange juice, and then joined Lyra at the table.

They busied themselves with breakfast and silence fell between them.

Pantalaimon was a brown-and-white rat. He twitched his whiskers and sniffed Lyra’s food as she ate, he also constantly glanced out of the café towards the cobbled street, maybe waiting for the new arrivals to show themselves.

“They’ve got dæmons inside them like you,” said Lyra all of the sudden.

Arthur looked at her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Figured, they’d be dead if they didn’t.”

Lyra smiled at that, proud she had managed to teach him something. “I wish she had a name so I could call her by it.”

It took Arthur a moment to realise Lyra meant his dæmon. “Why don’t you give her a name? Might make you feel more comfortable around me. We can just imagine she’s small and always in my pocket.”

Lyra pushed scrambled eggs around on her plate. “I don’t think she would be small.”

“We can pretend.”

Pantalaimon was looking at him too. Arthur wondered how odd his words might seem to them.

“Your parents’ dæmons have to give your dæmon her name. I can’t do it.”

Arthur was both fascinated and frustrated. What an amazing world that sounded like, where people had talking animals that were part of themselves. Part of their society and how they lived. He was trying to make Lyra feel comfortable around him, but he still caught the looks she and Pantalaimon gave him, and he knew it was because his dæmon wasn’t visible like hers.

“What about we call her Poppy for now?”

“Poppy?”

“Like the flower, they’re my mother’s favourites.”

Lyra bit the inside of her mouth. She exchanged a look with Pantalaimon and then she nodded. “Alright, we can call her Poppy.”

Something fluttered inside Arthur’s chest. Maybe it was relief that she agreed, but he wanted to believe it was Poppy, happy he acknowledged her enough to give her a name.

“I’ve got another question for you. What kind of surname is Silvertongue? In my world someone who is silvertongued has a way with words, is a liar. Is it a nickname of sorts?”

Lyra shook her head; she was looking proud now. “Iorek Byrnison gave it to me after I fooled Iofur Raknison into fighting him. I used to be Lyra Belacqua but now I’m Lyra Silvertongue.”

Arthur smiled. “I would've called you Goldenlocks." Lyra wrinkled her nose but Arthur just chuckled. “If we find a way to it, you’re gonna have to show me your world. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“But you’ve got Oxford, it must be similar.”

“Some of it. We don’t have talking bears in my world, though.”

They finished their breakfast and Arthur had Lyra wash the dishes. She complained at first, saying something about that being servant work. Arthur huffed a laugh in disbelief. He didn’t have to do much convincing because Pantalaimon whispered to Lyra’s ear and she reluctantly agreed. Arthur showed her how to do it correctly and then they left the café.

In the time it had taken them to eat, more kids had arrived to Cittàgazze. They were running up and down the streets, screaming and laughing. The oldest were all around Lyra’s age, the youngest could’ve been six or five. They were ransacking ice cream shops and toy stores. A girl ran out of a toy store holding a gigantic teddy bear.

Lyra didn’t seem comfortable. Pantalaimon was a small butterfly hanging from her hair, looking much like a hairpin when he didn’t move his wings. None of the kids had dæmons.

“Where are we going?” Lyra asked.

“We can explore, have a look around. It’s not safe for me to go back yet, we might as well kill some time.”

As they passed the kids, some whispered. They pointed at Arthur suspiciously. What were these Spectres Angelica had talked about? Was it really that odd he wasn’t affected by them? He couldn’t fit in with Lyra and now he couldn’t fit in here.

They reached a plaza with a tower in the middle. A rectangular old thing, very old. Four stories high, it wasn’t the biggest building in the city but something about it seemed mighty. Like an old king that, despite being frail, was worth more than everyone around him.

Arthur didn’t realise he had stopped walking and was still staring at the tower until Lyra pulled at his arm. He looked at her.

"There is something in there Pan doesn’t like.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Pantalaimon. Then he spoke directly to Arthur, leaving him surprised because he hadn’t done that before. “Something just.. feels weird.”

The tower seemed completely harmless, the sun reflected on the window panes making it shine. Yet Arthur felt weirdly drawn towards it. He wondered if it was a second nature or sixth sense kind of thing, something that had to do with his own dæmon. They seemed to feel things humans couldn’t, like they saw the world in energy or extra dimensions.

If only he could ask Poppy.

He closed a hand on his chest, grabbing the front of his shirt. Just one heartbeat. Maybe he was imagining things. A dæmon seemed like a fantasy just for Lyra, not for someone from his world where dæmons didn’t exist. He could only pretend.

“I don’t like it either, let’s go.” Lyra was still holding his arm so he used that to pull her away from the tower. 

The place seemed sacred. Maybe it was part of religion in this place.

Something else was stirring inside him, and it had nothing to do with Poppy or the tower this time. Arthur was looking at all the kids and taking in the lack of adults. It didn’t bother him enough to go back through the window, but now he wondered. Was he quick to decide on taking care of Lyra? Should he also ask these other kids if they were okay, if they needed help? They seemed fine, Lyra would’ve been fine even if he didn’t find her. Did she need him at all?

Arthur promised to show her his Oxford, but he couldn’t _keep Lyra._

The life he had thrown himself into wasn’t made to take care of children. He couldn’t make his past mistakes her problem too. She shouldn’t have to hide. She shouldn’t have to learn to hold and shoot a gun without shaking just in case.

He shouldn’t be thinking about it too much. He was taking care of a child because that’s what decent people do. Saying goodbye didn’t have to be rough.

Lyra could always live here once they parted, in Neverland. A world just for kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the name of Arthur's dæmon isn't Poppy so don't get too excited. Her name will be given by Serafina Pekkala just like Kirjava's if everything goes according to plan.


End file.
